


vivent les peuples

by finnicks



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2014-01-14
Packaged: 2018-01-08 17:11:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1135276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finnicks/pseuds/finnicks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story dedicated to the wonderful human being that is Feuilly. A lifetime of loss and betrayal would make anyone bitter but Feuilly tries his best to stay true to his friends and to his optimistic self.</p>
            </blockquote>





	vivent les peuples

**Author's Note:**

> just something i've had in my head for a while. playing around with some new ideas and some new characterization. wanted to post to encourage myself to keep writing it. hope you enjoy! -feuilys.tumblr

Feuilly had never fit in well with his fellow foster brothers and sisters. Even though he had been in the system for as long, if not longer, than most of his peers, he did not possess their bitter view of the world. Feuilly still believed there was hope for him and his friends, even if nothing in his life had lead him to believe so.

He had been five when his parents died in a car crash. He had been at home with his older sister who was only six and the next door neighbor of only fifteen who was being paid ten dollars to watch them for the afternoon.

When the news finally reached their small apartment, Feuilly held his sister’s hand as they both sat on the couch and listened to a man in a suit tell them that their parents were gone and they would be going to live somewhere else. The babysitter was crying over the telephone, glancing over at Feuilly and his sister occasionally, looking sad.

The next 48 hours was a blur in his memory. He vaguely remembered sleeping in a waiting room, his head on his sister’s lap, a kind police officer’s coat draped over him. In the middle of the night he was woken by someone trying to take his sister away. He cried and she yelled at the men, holding tightly to Feuilly’s hand. But they were insistent and promised her that she would be back soon enough.

She reluctantly stopped struggling, turned to Feuilly and hugged him tightly. “Go back to sleep, I’ll be back when you wake up, monkey.” She said, using her pet name for him fondly while holding his hand tightly in her own.

He whimpered, feeling sadder at her leaving him then his own parents. “Promise?”

“I promise.” She reluctantly let go of his hand.

“Okay,” He said. “Bye, Cosette.”

He fell back asleep, missing the warmth of her beside him. When he woke up, sunlight was streaming in through grimy windows and he was alone.

When a woman came for him and told him he would be going to a place with lots of other children looking for families he began to panic. “I have to wait for my sister,” he said adamantly.

The woman turned to her comrade, a different man in a suit and whispered. He whispered back. “There’s no record of you having anyone with you,” she said, kneeling down to be on eye-level with him.

“But my sister, Cosette. She was here with me!” He felt like he was going to cry again.

“No one was here with you, alright?” The woman looked sad. “Now, what’s your name?”

“Feuilly.” He said quietly. He could feel tears threatening to prick his eyes. He knew how much his father hated it when he cried so he swallowed and blinked hard.

The next thing he knew he was being pushed gently into a room full of boys of all ages. The door shut behind him. He clutched his small backpack tightly. He’d only packed for a single night; one change of clothes, toothbrush, and a few things that had already been in the bottom of the bag.

He looked shyly at the room full of bunk beds, their heads lining the wall and dressers at their feet. Some of the kids looked up but most of them ignored the noise of the opening and closing door. They were used to it.

A boy with dark hair who looked a year or two older than Feuilly poked his head out from over the top of his bunk. His eyes met Feuilly’s and he grinned at him. He jumped down from his bed and approached Feuilly. “You’re new to the system, aren’t you?” He said in a matter-of-fact tone.

“I’m Feuilly.” Feuilly said quietly, nodding.

“Montparnasse,” the dark haired boy said. “But you can call me, ‘Parnasse.”

Feuilly nodded dumbly.

“Come on, you can sleep in my bunk the kid who used to be there just got sent out to another foster home.” Montparnasse turned to return to his bed, gesturing for Feuilly to follow.

“Another?” Feuilly asked, finding his words at least.

“Yeah, his name’s Bahorel. He’ll be back, though. He always gets kicked out. You can sleep here while he’s gone.” Montparnasse patted the bed and turned to look at Feuilly. Something in his gaze softened. “Hey, it’ll be okay, kid.”

Feuilly nodded, grateful.

-

The days passed much the same after that and they all blended together in Feuilly’s memories; one monotonous, never-ending week. Sometimes adults would come and visit different kids. Sometimes a lucky kid would get taken away to a home with parents and siblings and warm beds.

Never Feuilly, though. At eight he was skinny and his reddish-hair stuck up in the back in an unkempt way. He talked little, didn’t smile, and didn’t initiate contact. Not a very good candidate for a foster home or adoption.

Montparnasse was a charmer, he found himself in several foster homes over the years. But he was always back after a few weeks or months. When Feuilly asked what it was like Montparnasse simply shrugged. “The food was better but the company was shit.” He would say, ruffling Feuilly’s hair affectionately.

-

While in the orphanage Feuilly was taught basic life skills; cleaning, laundry, cooking, elementary mathematics. In the afternoon he was free to do as he pleased. When Montparnasse’s old roommate, Bahorel, returned he brought books. When Feuilly asked what it said Bahorel looked at him curiously before telling him to keep it.

Bahorel was older than Feuilly, who was thirteen. He was a gangly teenager with a mess of dark hair and a penchant for fist fights. His knuckles were almost always scraped, his nose was crooked. But he possessed a kindness and consideration that Feuilly only glimpsed occasionally in Montparnasse.

The book Bahorel gave Feuilly was a torn and dog-eared paperback copy of “The Catcher in the Rye.” Feuilly puzzled over it in the dark as the other boys slept. He looked up at the bed above him and poke the mattress. “Bahorel,” he said into the dark. Bahorel now slept in Montparnasse’s bed as Montparnasse had been sent to a new home a few weeks ago.

“What?” The reply was sleepy.

“What’s this book about?” He asked, his fingers tracing the stained cover.

“Mental illness.” Bahorel sounded tired but not annoyed. Feuilly pressed further.

“Can you teach me to read it?”

No reply. Feuilly thought he had overstepped some unsaid boundary between them. Then he heard Bahorel swing his legs over the side of the bed and jump down as lightly as a cat.

“Budge up,” he said to Feuilly as he clicked on a tiny flashlight. Feuilly obliged, sitting up and moving over so Bahorel could sit beside him. “Did they teach you the alphabet here?” He asked after he’d settled in.

“I know how to read a little” Feuilly said, somewhat defiantly. He’d taught himself to decode the scrawls of the head mistress, the signs on the walls. Bahorel smelled like smoke. It was distracting but not nearly as disgusting as Feuilly thought it should be.

-

Years passed. Feuilly and Montparnasse and Bahorel grew up. They turned eighteen first, within six months of each other.

While the other two had changed as the grew, morphing from lanky boys to defined men, Feuilly, only fifteen, still felt like a child. When he looked in the mirror he only saw a skinny boy who looked frightened and had a mop of dark ginger-brown hair.

“We’ll come back for you,” Montparnasse and Bahorel promised before they left. They had grown fond of Feuilly, he was quiet but defiant nevertheless.

Feuilly, over the years, had grown skeptical of promises such as these. He merely nodded and watched them leave. His years in the system, while hardening his appearance, had done nothing to his optimistic heart. For Feuilly still longed for a family, even after watching families continuously fall apart.

Shortly after his sixteenth birthday Feuilly met Éponine. She was his age, with long dark hair, a waif-like figure, and dirty clothes. She was scrappier than any of the other kids in the orphanage and was frequently reprimanded.

She approached him one day when he was reading alone at a table.

“What are you reading?” She said, sitting across from him without waiting for a response.

He glanced up, slightly surprised. After Montparnasse and Bahorel had left he had had little company. He offered the cover, showing her the title, “The Catcher in the Rye.”

“Good book.” She said idly, twisting a lock of her midnight hair around a finger. The surprise on Feuilly’s face must have been apparent because she smirked at him a little. “You shouldn’t judge a girl on how she looks.”

“I wasn’t,” Feuilly protested before giving up. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Éponine replied, “It’s funny how even we think we’re hopeless.”

“What?”

“You know how everyone who sees us, I mean orphans, thinks we’re lost causes? I just mean, it’s funny how we think that, too.”

Feuilly was quiet, thinking. “I’m Feuilly,” he said at last, not thinking of anything better to say.

“Éponine,” she replied. Seeming warmer, regarding him with less caution.

“You’re new here?” He asked, painfully aware of his first conversation here with Montparnasse.

“Yeah. I’m not an orphan, though. I ran away because my parents are terrible but I was caught and they didn’t know what else to do with me. I know I sound shitty saying that, since everyone else here _is_ an orphan but to each his own.” She looked regretful.

Feuilly nodded. He was a little resentful of her—at least she _had_ parents. But he figured he would discover more about her soon enough.

-

Éponine, a young and pretty girl, got fostered out of the orphanage often. But she always returned scowling, cursing the dirty minded men and abusive women she too often got lent out too.

“It’s worse than prostitution,” She said to Feuilly one night as they washed dishes in the kitchen. “At least then I would get paid.”

He looked over to catch her quickly rubbing at her eyes. She looked so much smaller than usual. Perhaps it was Feuilly’s recent growth spurt, but it was probably due to how defeated she looked. This was Éponine; fiery, undefeatable, unshakable Éponine. And she suddenly looked so broken. As she moved he noticed her arms, covered in bruises and cuts. He didn’t need to ask. She caught him looking, a tear escaped from her saddened eye.

Feuilly held her as she cried.

-

They turned eighteen together. They could finally leave. Feuilly found himself unsure of what would happen now. He had spent his whole life being told who he was and what to do. Now he had complete freedom, he could go anywhere, be anyone. And he didn’t even know where to begin.

In the days before his birthday Feuilly had waited patiently by the phone for the call from Montparnasse and Bahorel. The attendant seemed to pity him and let him stay as long as he wanted in the tiny front office.

Éponine found him asleep at the desk, the lights flickering, tired from prolonged use. A piece of paper was stuck to his face and half his hair was sticking up worse than usual. She guided him back to his room.

“What if they don’t call?” Feuilly asked, sitting on his bed with the empty top bunk.

“We’ll get out of here together.” Éponine promised. Feuilly tried hard to believe her.

When he awoke the next day it was his and Éponine’s birthdays. Still no word from Montparnasse or Bahorel. Feuilly tried to shake the nagging sense of abandonment that settled over him as he packed his few things. He paused when his hands found the tattered paperback book Bahorel had given him years ago. He debated on tossing it into the nearest bin, but ended up tucking it into his bag.

He met Éponine in the doorway. “Ready?” She smiled encouragingly.

Feuilly turned to survey the place one last time. Thirteen years of his life had been spent here. There had been good days and there had been bad ones. But they were all his. He nodded to Éponine, turning to face her. “I am.”

**Author's Note:**

> more amis to come!


End file.
